


Redemption

by displacerghost



Category: Megamind (2010)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Developing Relationship, Dysfunctional Family (Roxanne), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Issues, F/M, Found Family (everybody), Happy Ending, Kidnapping Coupon AU, Megamind and Roxanne are publicly Dating, Romance, Smut, Tentacle Sex, Violence/Gore in some later chapters, and there's a lot of Plot, possibly more Romance than Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:07:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27076237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/displacerghost/pseuds/displacerghost
Summary: Roxanne redeems her Frequent Kidnapping Card—Megamind doesn't need to redeem himself. Regardless of what he—or Metro City—might think.Metro City is about to find out what it's like to fear a truly evil villain.It's a damn good thing Megamind is there to protect them.
Relationships: Megamind/Roxanne Ritchi
Comments: 28
Kudos: 129





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [setepenre_set](https://archiveofourown.org/users/setepenre_set/gifts).



> This started as a prompt on Tumblr, once upon a time several years ago and I started writing the one-shot I'd had the initial idea for and...ahahahahaha.... It turned into two stories, actually. The Trouble With Miss Ritchi (which Set is writing with me) and...this. Which. The """outline""" I have for this fic is 40,000+ words. "Ghost," Set says to me, upon viewing said """outline.""" "Do you...do you realize how much of this is...done? Like, actual-facts-ready-to-post-done?"
> 
> I had not. There were great whacks of it written and also what felt to me like even greater whacks of ???here???there be story??? THE UNKNOWN and I was doing so badly with this Illness I couldn't see how small those unknown gaps were, and also how what I did have written framed their shapes out. The Illness will still waver, I know; there will still be times I *can't* write. But for the first time in years, I'm no longer afraid that the damage is permanent. 
> 
> Also, I had not realized how badly the Illness had affected my confidence. I'd lost my ability to write, read, and effectively communicate and even on the days where I felt Okay-ish and tried to write it...wasn't like before, my brain just couldn't *reach*. Some of that is legit Illness (like...the couple of times I went to the ER I failed the "name, year, president" entrance exam) and I have learned to live with that and work around it. But some of that was having lost the confidence that I am capable of doing what I want to with words. Set said something about a piece of art I did having "confident lines" and my brain went....OH.
> 
> Set, my dear, I know you know this is for you. It's always been for you. Beyond what your existence and your love has done for me, showing me I'm a whole person, and beautiful and capable... Babyluv, I didn't know what love was until I loved you. Even before we were together, before I met you and confessed, etcy-tera, this is the story I wanted to give you, because of what Code: Safeword gave me. 
> 
> (Sometimes, when you scream long into the Abyss, the Abyss /answers/.)

"Are you okay?"

Roxanne snaps back into herself, turning her sightless overwide gaze from the city passing by beyond the car window to the man in the driver's seat.

"What?"

Wayne blows out a breath, staring through his window, one arm guiding the steering wheel. The car purrs along, engine a whisper of power. They slow for a light, stop so smoothly it feels like uninterrupted motion. If not for the console lights and luxury of cold air drifting from the vents across her face the car might have been shut off. It's the hybrid engine, it doesn't _need_ to run if they're only idling and—

"What _happened_?"

Roxanne shuts her eyes, fingers twisting in her lap.

 _"Something_ happened," he says. Bit more force, bit more agitated and she knows he's thinking _What did Megamind do to you_?

And—it wasn't _Megamind_ , it's not his fault—it's not really her _own_ , either, it's just—

Life. Being shitty.

Roxanne leans her head back against the expensive leather. "It's not Megamind."

"Bullshit." Soft but heated, eyes sliding sideways at her. "Roxanne—"

" _Wayne_ —"

"It's _still_ bothering you. You can't tell me it's not. Whatever _it_ is. It's been _weeks_ , Roxie—"

It will have been twenty one days at midnight but _ahaha who's counting_.

"Hey," she says across him, sharply. "I _asked you_ for help and you wouldn't—"

"Jesus, Roxie, that wouldn't have fucking _helped_. What the hell? You can't just—break someone out of prison to have a conversation. You should _know_ that. And it was really god damn inappropriate to ask me that, okay? I know we're friends but I'm Metro City's _hero_ ; I have to be an example for people to look up to. I can't use my powers for—for _convenience. To break the law_. Jesus."

Stepping on the gas, speeding through a light that blinks red above them as they pass and Roxanne is going to _bite her fucking tongue in half_ because it's either that or _eat him alive_.

"I'm only saying this because I care about you, Roxie, and you aren't—"

"— _please_ stop calling me that—"

So fucking tired of this. Sick of the self she can't seem to shed, sick of the feeling inside that she's lagging behind everyone in her life, that they're all on Act Three of the script and she hasn't even figured out which role is supposed to be hers.

He's glaring at her now, and she refuses to turn and look at him. "I'm trying to _help you_ ; I _know_ you know that! Why are you— _like this_? Why can't I ever remember you're like this?"

"Maybe if you would _butt_ out of _my fucking business_ I wouldn't have to—"

" _Or_ ," he says, forcefully overriding her, "you could just tell the resident superhero what the god damn supervillain _did_ and let me sort it out like I'm supposed to—"

"It's _nothing_ to do with him! I'm mad at myself, okay?! Is that enough for you?! God _damn it,_ Wayne!"

Aware, after the words are out, of the harsh edge, the force of her tone, the _screechy_ pitch to her voice.

A tight muscle jumping at the corner of Wayne's jaw. "Yeah," he says, after a minute. "Yeah, that's enough for me."

Aware of herself, her imperfections, all the jagged edges and unbeautiful _sharpness_ that creates shrapnel out of anyone who blunders up against her. She's done it, again, done the same stupid fucking thing she always does; lashing out, edged tongue a blade expertly wielded and she— _fuck_ —she doesn't know where it went so wrong or how to smooth it right again.

Silence, between them, and the crunch of gravel beneath the tires as the car chews its way up the drive. Wayne shoving the gearshift into park and catching her eyes.

"You know, you make it _really_ hard to be your friend sometimes, _Roxanne_." Slamming the door behind himself and leaving her sitting in his car, _warring_ with herself in a very familiar battle.

_Don't cry—don't cry—don't you **fucking** cry—_

Eyes shut, head tipped back, teeth sunk into her lip, unbreathing—unbreathing—if you let it go it's going to be a _sob_ —her throat is convulsing and her ribs clamp like a vise around lungs and heart and she fits the nails of one hand into the softness beneath the nails of the other and _presses_ until at last the muscles of her stomach relax, oh so infinitesimally, and the acid burn of tears recedes and suddenly she's suppressing _laughter_ , caustic and hollow and—

 _Didn't I tell you? The problem is_ **me**.

* * *

But he's waiting for her at the fancy side door, outlined in tall columns and bordered around with precisely manicured shrubbery. Silent, the most _statue-esque_ man in the history of statues, standing in the bright circle of light with his hand on the doorknob. Moths swirl and flit overhead. She can hear soft little bodies _plinking_ against the glass.

They walk in, her hand curved around his elbow, both beaming.

Because that's what you do.

Keep up _appearances_.

 _Appear_ to be happy, excited, gregarious.

Smile! Beam! Be bright, be bold (they expect it of you). Don't let the cracks in the facade show. Eat, drink, be merry; while inside you are dying.

( _FUCK_ what she wouldn't give for a kidnapping tonight.)

Or perhaps she's simply swallowed too much, over the long years of her life. The bottle inside is brimming with the lovely bouquet of bitterness and regret she's so near to drowning in it, drowning from the inside out until the lights blur together and she can't _breathe_ in this room, in the midst of these people.

Wayne's friend Gordon Dash (CEO of Core Enterprises, construction branch of the Scott Corp), tall and young and tanned, one hand on Wayne's shoulder as they all laugh at something Darius Williams, tall and dark and handsome (Wayne's personal lawyer, son of one of Scott Corp's many company lawyers) has said.

Roxanne smiles, all teeth and bright eyes and precisely pitched laugh she's perfected over many years of practice alone in front of her bathroom mirror.

She misses some turn of the conversation, and suddenly Wayne is bending to her, still chuckling.

"Here, hold this for a minute, will you Roxie?"

Left standing, laughter trailing away as they walk away from her. Looks down at her hands—holding her and Wayne's champagne glasses. Shimmery wavering reflection of her face.

"Roxanne Ritchi?"

She turns.

He's dressed like a scientist, wearing scientist glasses. Small polite smile beneath polite expression. Holding out one hand. "Jack Trine," he says, "I'm—" He notices her full hands, rueful twist of mouth, withdraws hand. "Ah. Excuse me."

She knows what he wants to ask before he even opens his mouth. _I'm a big fan_ , he will say. And then it will be what they _always_ , ask.

Aren't you scared (no) What's he like when the cameras are off (the same) What is Minion like (sweet) Don't you hate getting kidnapped (no it's exciting and good for my job).

Fake smile fake laugh—they always laugh with her at this one—and god it's _excruciating_.

(Roxanne wonders, often, if Megamind knows how curious the public is of him and how much she talks about him.)

"I watch your work," he says. His curiosity is as polite as the rest of him. "Would—" he gives a small embarrassed laugh. "That is, if you don't mind, I would love to ask you some questions...? About Megamind? He doesn't give interviews, you know—of course you know—and I thought—well, you're the most likely person to know, about him...the _real_ him, I mean, and—all of those marvelous _machines_."

The breathy word is reverential, lights from the chandeliers glinting off his glasses and Roxanne turns fully toward him, every atom in her body aligning. This isn't shallow magazine questions and carefully crafted sound bites to be regurgitated this is _professional interest_ in the mega-minded man himself.

She beams at the lanky man in the lab coat, a grin she _knows_ is too wide, too many teeth showing, too _genuine_ but— her heart is easing for the first time in weeks.

Not as good as a kidnapping, but—

(is anything?)

"Yes, _please_ do; I would _love_ to!"

* * *

"Oh, Jack! _You_ have her!"

A slim arm wrapping around Roxanne's waist and Lady Grace lifting Wayne's champagne from her hand—Roxanne had forgotten she _had_ champagne, let alone both—fuck—her eyes drop to the gleaming floor around them where, yes, there are splatters of liquid from her dramatic gestures and—her eyes flick around, to the wide circle of space in which she and the scientist stand.

People don't usually ask such good questions, though, and she...had let herself get excited. Heat flushing her face.

The scientist smiles at her. Polite. _Mild_. "You know a great deal about him, Miss Ritchi."

Half-shrug, half-smile. "He likes showing off."

The first flash of a real smile from him. "Genius loves an audience."

"Exactly so."

"I'm stealing her from you, Jack. You've had her all evening and Wayne wants to leave, soon."

Whoa—what? Roxanne blinks, looking around again. The deep darkness beyond the windows, the empty tables where once had sat trays of chicken pastries and miniature mayonnaise-cucumber sandwiches, the thinned crowd, the groupings near the exits as people make their lengthy goodbyes.

 _Fuck_.

But—well. At least the evening hadn't been boring.

For her, anyway. The poor scientist had probably been trying to flee her for hours and she'd just—steamrolled him, oblivious to anything but expounding upon her favorite topic on a captive audience.

"Come on, darling, I'll walk you out the long way. Let's skip the goodbye rituals, yes?" Lady Grace says, pulling her away toward a server's door. In the empty hall on the other side she relaxes. "My apologies, dear, about Mr. Trine. I try to keep an eye on him; he makes woman uncomfortable."

Roxanne blinks, nonplussed, reflecting on her own too-much smile; the way she _knows_ her eyes glaze over in excitement; the wet drips of champagne on her dress and gleam of it on the floor and, fuck, _she hadn't even drank any of it_.

The scientist hadn't been the one loudly gesticulating at length and with full champagne glasses about the nuances of machines and machinations. There hadn't been a wide circle cleared around them because of _him_.

"Hahaha. Y-yeah... Um. What does he do?"

Lady Grace makes a face but quickly smooths it out. "Oh, I don't know. Something with science. He works down in the labs and honestly hardly belongs _here_ but—he's one of Douglas's favorites and, well. You know Douglas."

Wayne's father, who gives meaning to the words _stubborn_ and _intimidating_. Roxanne has only met him a handful of times over the years she's been fake-dating Wayne. He travels a lot. She's always found him to be polite, if brusque. A man who has no time for frivolities or bullshit. He seems to approve of her, in an off-hand kind of way.

 _Yeah_ , Wayne had said dryly the one time she'd asked him about it. _You're a woman. And God only knows why but you aren't_ afraid _of him._

She blinked, taken aback. _Why would I be afraid of him?_ And then, with a laugh, _What's he going to do, tie me up and dangle me over the crocodile pit?_

But Wayne hadn't laughed. _You should take this more seriously_ , he said, then looked at her and closed his mouth on the rest of what he'd planned. _You know what, never mind. Clearly you're doing_ something _right. He likes_ you _._

Roxanne asks her, on impulse, "What made you marry Mister Scott?"

And when Wayne's mom turns to her with both delicate brows raised Roxanne flushes from her collarbone to the roots of her hair.

What the fuck is _wrong_ with her tonight?

"I'm just—I was just—curious..."

Lady Grace gives a small, almost rueful shake of her head, tucking her arm through Roxanne's and gliding down the hall at Roxanne's side, scented faintly of jasmine. She smells like a lady, like a mom. Like Roxanne's distant memories of church. So slender and elegant she makes Roxanne feel like a buffalo blundering along beside a gazelle. She probably even smells like a buffalo. As far as she can tell, _real_ ladies don't sweat. Roxanne can feel the perspiration under her arms and down her spine. It isn't the heat—the atmosphere in the Scott's manor is always pleasantly cool—but rather the pressure of the spotlight, of standing in front of or amongst a group of people; of being _on_. The pressure of performance always sets her on edge.

She's _good_ on edge. But it does leave her wondering how real ladies manage such things. Lady Grace is all poise and delicacy. Roxanne doesn't think the woman had ever truly sweated in her life. Perhaps real ladies are designed differently, generations of pure refined genetics allowing them only beads of perspiration on their foreheads while playing tennis.

"He asked," Lady Grace says now, succinctly, with a sidelong look at Roxanne and one brow raised over her slanted mouth. "I suppose my family would have relented, had I objections to the match. But..." One sculpted shoulder rolls in a shrug. "I didn't. He was—and continues to be, thank God—kind to me."

She falls silent a moment; their footsteps echo in the hall, Roxanne's loud and distinct, Lady Grace's a whisper.

"Sometimes, that's all that matters," she murmurs, face turned towards the windows overlooking the moonlit grounds. Then she seems to shake herself and turns back to Roxanne, her smile rueful but genuine. "At least, in my circles it is. He has his— _projects_ —and I have Wayne."

(she comes close to saying something to Lady Grace, then; it's on the tip of her tongue and she has to swallow it down with an effort; _shut up shut up! you know better, keep your god damn mouth shut!_ )

(it's none of her business and would be overstepping and, besides, when has opening up and reaching out ever been a _good_ idea, when have you ever _not_ regretted opening your stupid mouth? this is your fucking problem—you made this bed, now lie in it. and shut up)

Lady Grace leads her out the door she and Wayne came in through, then goes in search of Wayne. Knowing, Roxanne knows, that Roxanne needs some time alone to... _compose_ herself.

Outside, in the cold, leaning with her back against the wall in the dark and counting stars until her heartbeat stops thundering in her ears.

She isn't sure about _composure_ but an inner resignation has been reached when mother and son emerge into the night together.

Lady Grace gives her a soft hug, a kiss on both cheeks.

And then Roxanne watches Wayne sweep his mom into his arms. Her yelp of delighted laughter, his rumbling laugh in reply. A deep twist of envy, powerful and painful; wistful longing that was almost a kind of heartbreak.

When Wayne settles into the car he hands her a small brown paper bag.

"What's this?"

"Mom sent it for you."

A cheeseburger, fries, and a beer. And a bar of imported European chocolate, with instructions on how to melt it to make cocoa. Roxanne makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. It sticks in her throat.

"She's a really great lady, your mom."

"Yeah. She is."

The car jolts its way back down the rough gravel drive, then they are on the smooth dark road, headlights sweeping into the night before them.

Roxanne takes a deep breath and plunges headfirst into the cold silence. "I'm sorry. About before. Losing my temper."

Wayne's cheeks puff out and then flatten on a long, slow breath. "I... Me too. For what I said, it was...uncalled for. I'm just..." He looks at her, studies her, then bites his lip and turns back to the road. "You don't seem okay," he says, carefully. And then looks at her again. "Are you okay, Roxanne?"

No.

She's not.

What does it matter? She shrugs, not wanting to lie when the truth is so obvious, and Wayne sighs.

"I wish you'd talk to me," he says bluntly. His eyes slid sideways to her face. "Or talk to _him_."

"It's not—"

 _Megamind_ , she was going to say, again, but his name tangles in her mouth and she shuts her eyes.

"Roxanne—whatever it is, you should tell him." Her shoulders go tense and her jaw clenches and Wayne sighs. "You _should_. You _know_ you should, or else you wouldn't be so hung up on it." A pause, and then, "Do you want me to tell him for you?"

Bolting upright in her seat, every nerve singing a siren song of panic. "Wayne Scott, you wouldn't _dare_ —"

"If I thought you'd come clean about it I might."

A tense little silence.

"Saturday's Metro Man day," he says, as mildly if commenting on the weather forecast.

Roxanne feels her hackles raise and smoothes them down with considerable effort. "So _what_."

"So, you know he's gonna kidnap you."

Another beat of silence—not _entirely_ silent, she is grinding her teeth so hard they're going to be _dust_.

Wayne's eyes slide to her again. "Wear that red dress. You know, the little one that shows off your neck and collarbones? And heels. You look great in heels."

Turning her head to face him fully. "And what would _you_ know about—"

"Christ, Roxanne, I'm not _blind_ —"

The muscles in her shoulders, all down her taut arms, even the little ones in the hands clenched on the leather on either side of her legs are _shuddering_. This shouldn't be so hard. "Wayne— _I can't_ —" Stops herself and faces him, square in her seat. "I _won't_ talk about this any more with you. _Don't_ ask me. No. No more pushing, no more—trying to help, whatever, just— _no_ more. _Please_. Okay?"

"Okay," he says quickly. "Okay. I... I'm sorry, Roxie, I just..."

She's looking at him with big eyes, city lights reflected in them and he wonders, looking back at her, if she knows how much soul is showing. Uncomfortable, he looks away.

"I'm sorry." His voice is soft. "I didn't mean to push you. I...guess I'm not easy to be friends with, either, sometimes."

Roxanne lets out a long slow breath, lowering herself back against her seat. Her mouth quirks to one side. "Sometimes."

"But. We do okay, you and me."

A snort of laughter. "Yeah. We do okay."

* * *

She drops her keys on the table in her front hall. Slips out of her heels, kicks them aside, drapes her purse over the door handle of the coat closet and pads on bare stockinged feet through her living room, snagging the red-and-black blanket from off the couch and shoving the doors of her balcony wide, wide open.

Standing there in the cold solidity of the air, shutting her eyes and tipping her face up; wisps of cloud, reflecting city lights, and distant darkness, and beyond that—stars, stars, stars.

She sits there, bordered between indoors and out, to eat the cold fries and still-warm burger. The takeaway dinner a la Lady Grace Scott.

 _He has his—_ projects _—and I have Wayne_.

What does _she_ have?

_(you had a chance)_

_(you had a chance and you threw it away)_

Work. She has work. Her _career_.

Oh, what _joy_. Fulfillment! Fun! Fantastic.

 _Fuck_.

And plants and an empty apartment; silence and _space_ , space where there should have been people but she'd shoved them all away, and somehow that space had been filled with...

Well, be honest, Roxanne. _It's your best quality._

With a _supervillain_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> October 23rd! Happy Birthday, Roxanne Ritchi.

The truth is it's all empty.

Her apartment and her life, her hours. Silent days spent with the tick of the clock counting down to nothing at all, one more day and one more day and always one more; life like slanted sunset light, the faint far away sounds of traffic on the streets below. All of it passing by without her.

TV on, and it's always _In other news_ ; things happening elsewhere, events and people and places and she isn't connected to any of it, just drifting by in a white static blur of her own. No one ever steps into this personal space bubble.

Well, that's not entirely true—there is The Supervillain. The one real living thing in a life like cotton stuffing, like muffled sounds from the next apartment over, like lukewarm bathwater—tepid, distant, dull.

She doesn't have a car, it's one of the supposed benefits—it had seemed so at the time, anyway—of living downtown in this high-priced high-rise; she can walk anywhere she needs to go (work, mainly) or take a taxi if it's someplace outside the downtown area. Less wasted money on insurance and gas and parking fees means more spare cash for—well, for hobbies and social outings and fun activities that she can never seem to even get energized or excited for, let alone _do_.

But then there's times like now, when the empty silence of her apartment is so _loud_ , and the setting sun is pulling her whole heart with it, tugging at her bones with a fierce melancholic yearning to _go_ , to hit the road and drive as far as she can. Chase the sunlight. Maybe outrun the darkness.

But you can't get away from yourself and that's always been the real problem.

It's sort of a restlessness, a gray twilight dissatisfaction. The sharp awareness of time passing, of chances slipping by. She wants to tear the clock off the wall, unplug the oven and microwave, close the storm shutters and light some candles and hide from the world in the dark, drink too much wine and listen to sad music until she falls asleep on the couch.

( _it's me—I can't get myself to go away_ )

Anger and bitterness. Not exactly regret—what does she _have_ to regret anyway? Certainly not this empty life she's built, the journalism awards tucked away in a desk drawer, the empty walls where family photos should hang.

She hates sunsets because they feel too much like ending. The too-heavy weight of time, passing by all around her. Life keeps going for everyone else the way it always has and she is still here, a standing stone on the shoreline, too much a coward to do more than get her feet wet.

It fills her with a reckless, restless kind of anger, a directionless irascibility that has her scowling through her apartment, throwing things in boxes or in the garbage, needing _change_ , needing things to be different and utterly powerless to step beyond her own hesitations.

It wouldn't matter anyway. It isn't like there is anyone around to care.

She's tried to cross this gap, tried everything you're supposed to do in life—she's dated, she's volunteered, she's worked too many hours on too many projects that never give more than a fleeting brush with bleak satisfaction. _In tonight's news_ nothing ever changes. She cleans her apartment with a fierce single-minded intensity, as if she can clear the dust away from her soul the same way, as if putting away useless clutter and reorganizing her kitchen drawers and moving which plants sit at which windows will somehow affect the ache inside, as if changing her surroundings will somehow stem the tide of raw emptiness that always swamps her before she is done cleaning, the one that rises up like a wave to engulf her while she is scrubbing the kitchen counters. The world blurs away behind a veil of stinging tears and she slides to the floor, holding her knees and crying until her ribs ache and she can't breathe.

She wants to get dressed and go window shopping, wants to call Wayne and invite him out for dinner, wants to walk in crowded places and brush up against the lives around her, absorb some measure of second-hand warmth to plaster the thin walls of her soul.

She sinks her teeth into her lower lip and slams her head back against the cabinet, staring sightless at the high ceiling as hot tears flow down her face and something like a fishhook pulls at the tender flesh below the hollow of her ribs.

She wants to _feel_ , god damn it, she wants _connection_. Wants to feel alive, immersed in life, part of a web of in which she is _valued_ , she is _seen_ , belonging to people who want what she has to give.

Not to be this—this broken, jagged creature parading around in people shapes, holding up the mask of acceptability, conformity, _normalcy_. Not this shallow existence barely skimming the surface, this empty ache where her heart should be; a pain inside that never seems to close but can only be held at bay, temporarily, by the everyday static of her stupid unfulfilling bullshit excuse for a life.

There's no one. There's never been anyone. Even when she was little she was always on the outside, standing alone beyond the circle of her family. Extra, unneeded. An _afterthought_.

(There is no value to what you _are;_ you are only worth putting up with if what you _do_ exceeds the annoyance of _putting up with you.)_

The only one who's ever looked at her and seen anything special is _Megamind_.

She has three filing cabinets full of Megamind research. Articles she's written or is writing, articles others have written, her charts and notes and analysis of his Plans; a list of every song he's ever used and each Plan it had been attached to, and her suppositions of the implications and subtext he'd meant by each choice. Every date of every kidnapping. Her private summaries of the events. Her transcriptions of their every conversation—including the off-record ones. The notebooks full of questions she has always wanted to ask him, dating back before their very first encounter.

Criminal Overlord and _supervillain_ , it had taken no time at all for him to become the exciting center of her sad, stupid life and how fucked up is that?

Standing at the edge of her balcony, wine bottle still corked at her elbow, staring out at all the lights and half-possessed of an urge to _jump_. Cold wind blows right through her, stirring her hair over her face and the urge wells up so strongly that she has to actually take a step back, expelling an unsteady breath.

It's not death that draws her, not suicide, but _change_.

The realization sinks in, spreading slow ripples outward. She's both a little stunned and utterly unsurprised at all.

Wide eyes reflected at her through the glass, her own expression, lost, out to sea with no compass or guiding stars. Blinking through the tears at her fingers clutching the bottle of wine. She sets it down on a side table and takes a slow, steady breath.

_Fuck_.

So what _does_ she have in her life?

Work. Work work work, and work some more. She does interviews and pursues investigations and writes articles for the paper as well as appearing on KMCP as an on-scene anchor. She _likes_ journalism, she enjoys pursuing the truth, ferreting out secrets no one wants known. Because people _should_ know, should have the right to know, at least, and it...feels like something that should matter. She can still remember a time when it had.

Work, and her unpaid side-gig as damsel in distress for Metro City's criminal Overlord.

_What does that even_ _mean_ _?_ Roxanne had asked him once, when he'd been monologuing for her benefit, before the cameras had been broadcasting yet.

Megamind swirled his cape around himself, green eyes peering at her from over the top of the fabric. He looked like Dracula, like he belonged more in some old black and white melodrama and not real life at all. She'd had to bite her cheek to keep the smile from spreading. He doesn't mind her attitude and irreverence for the proceedings—he seems to _enjoy_ it, actually—but she didn't want him to think she was mocking him.

Stalking towards her with long steps, furthering the ridiculousness of the situation—her smile almost broke free of her, then, but Megamind had loomed over her and suddenly she wasn't smiling at all but had pressed back into her chair and caught her breath—he was so _close_ —and he smirked, straightening up and sweeping his arms out to both sides, bowing a little and holding her gaze. Caught, held captive in a way that had nothing to do with being tied to the chair.

So close she can feel his breath on her face, can feel the edge of his lips ghosting over her skin.

" _Wouldn't you like to know_."

He cackles, throwing his head back and capering away from her, while Roxanne glares murder at him and her heart tries to hammer its way out of her ribs.

She can't even pinpoint the way or the moment he'd managed it, that's the infuriating thing. He's just _there_ , taking up space in her heart, causing all kinds of unwanted mischief.

Like making her love him.

And the obnoxious thing about it is, she can't even be mad at him. Because then he would _know_.

_Why so spiky today, Miss Ritchi_ , he would say, and what the hell was she supposed to tell him? It's all your own damn fault for being so sexy and smart and adorable and _perfect_?

Yeah. That is _not happening_ , thank you very much.

So, a nuisance. She'd learn to live with it eventually. In the meantime he seems hell bent on driving her absolutely _insane._ The monologuing and the _smirking_ and the spikes and leather and—

And the birthday present. That fucking _coupon card_.

* * *

No one else had remembered. Or cared. It was the same either way, wasn't it? People don't forget what's _really_ important, if she had—if anyone had—

It's not that she's all alone in the world. But her relationship with her parents is... _complicated_ , and her brother has the baby now, and Roxanne has never really been one for children but even she knows how demanding of time babies are. And Wayne is—well. _Wayne_.

Though his mother had sent her a card, _Happy Birthday Roxanne_ , with a gift certificate inside for a nice boutique downtown—and it was really touching, that Lady Grace always remembered but there was something about it that _hurt_ , a stab of loneliness like a blade to the heart because—well—she _wasn't_ dating Wayne, was she, and she _knew_ that Lady Grace knew it.

But she'd sent a card anyway. No one from Roxanne's own damn family had even bothered to _text_ her, but Lady Grace Scott sent a card.

It was like salt on the wound, a sweet gesture but _oh_ , how it hurt, how she _yearned_ for the closeness they had, for _connection_ with—god, _anyone_ , anyone at all to remember and make time for her, to be important to _someone_. Was that really so bad a thing to want? Doesn't every human _need_ that?

She'd been so desperate that she'd almost given in and said yes when Hal asked her out to the arcade. For anyone but Hal, she would have—but Hal would have read too much into it, and she couldn't deal with him being _more_ pushy about the flirting.

No one else had asked her to do anything. On her way out the door, the receptionist had called out, _Oh, hey—happy birthday_.

And Roxanne had smiled over her shoulder and paused but—that was it. So she'd pushed through the doors and stood on the sidewalk, in the cold blowing wind with her face tilted up to the gray sky and felt the loneliness like some kind of inner gravity, a longing so deep and powerful it almost brought her to her knees. She almost fell apart, right there in front of God and everybody.

Fuck, what was wrong with her? This was pathetic. _Indulging_ this—this _melancholy_.

So she'd wiped her eyes and walked home.

(so. _stupid._ )

And found Minion waiting on her balcony.

Some kind of oversized wheel-less motorcycle behind him. A hoverbike? Had to be. He'd obviously flown in.

He bowed to her when she opened the glass door, bowed and smiled. _Happy Birthday, Miss Ritchi._

She'd crossed her arms over her chest, amused but wary. He was in a tuxedo. It was...an interesting sight indeed, on a robotic body with a fishbowl on top. He had even, by some miracle, found shiny black dress shoes that fit his enormous feet.

It touched her heart. She'd always had a soft spot for Minion. _Why the formal get up?_

He straightened. _It's your birthday. We have—well... There's something special today. I can't talk about it—sorry—but,_ he pivoted, bowing again and holding out one crooked arm. _Would you come with me? Please? This is a special kidnapping. We have something special planned and it's all for you._

His smile was soft and a little shy. The wind ruffled the fur poking up from the collar and around the wrists of his suit. Roxanne caught a whiff of him. God help her, he was wearing _cologne_.

But—well, fuck. She didn't have anything else planned. Take a hot bath and drink all the wine in her fridge and order Chinese take out and see how many Star Trek movies she could marathon before passing out on her couch.

Yeah. Fun times indeed.

She stepped towards him. Hesitated. _Do I need my purse?_

_Um. No? No, I don't see why you would. And actually, I have to ask you to turn your phone off. GPS, you know?_

She left her purse on the table, slipping her phone out of her pocket to leave it as well. Shut the doors behind herself.

She was intrigued, but she had a pretty good idea of what this was all about. Megamind had been begging—well, not _begging_ but—attempting to seduce her to the side of evil for _years_.

When better to make the pitch than on her birthday?

No way she was going to say _yes_ , but it beat the hell out of sitting in her apartment alone, getting drunk and crying into her pillow.

They do give her a birthday crown—with spikes on it, of course.

And the coupon card.

The little piece of plastic that ruins her life.

* * *

**_Frequent Kidnapping Card_ **

Black, with copper colored filigree around the edges, much like the design of the de-gun, and two rows of little boxes. The first of which bears a careful **X.**

"And what do I get? A free cookie? A one-off kidnapping veto?" Voice warm and rich despite her dry tone and the amused curve of her brow.

One long finger wagged at her. "Ah-ah-ah, Miss Ritchi!"

Sudden swoosh of cape around him, the wind of it blowing her hair away from her face as he brought one cape-clad arm across his chest and drew the other up over his head. Green eyes gleamed at her from the little gap between his arms.

They both ignored her soft snort of laughter, the way she had to catch the insides of her cheeks in her teeth to stop the grin from spreading.

_This guy_.

"Evil does not give up it's secrets!" A stage-whisper hiss, and he waggled his brows at her.

"Ah. Alright then." Affecting disappointment, slipping the little plastic square into her pocket. Casual, brushing her hair back into place. "So, what are we doing today? Is it—" peering over the edge of their platform at what looked, to her, like a jumble of badly assembled rails, ramps, pulleys, and chutes, "—an Evil Rollercoaster of Doom? Are we playing giant Snakes and Ladders?"

Excitement flared in his eyes, vivid green flashing like she'd dropped a match into the fire of them. The cape came whooshing down in another breezy hurricane that swept her hair back again.

"Ah! A clever guess, but no! Today's fantastically complicated, deviously complex device is an _oh-mazh_ to one of the great inventors—not just of deathtraps—but of the very _concept_ of the deathtrap! Possibly you may be familiar with the work of... _Rube Goldberg."_

Reverent tone, gloved hands clasped together ecstatically. Roxanne blinked, thrown. _Rube Goldberg? Who...? Wait, wasn't that the guy who—_

"The world lost a great potential supervillain," Megamind said with a regretful sigh, "when Rube Goldberg became a cartoonist. Even so, his work depicting machine design has been an inspiration to us all—the fiendish intricacy of the mechanisms! The pure simplicity of their purposes!"

He gestured emphatically, both arms thrown out as if beseeching the heavens, eyes shining and unfocused, fixed on some inner vision only he could see.

"Fascinating, absolutely fascinating! And more difficult to design than you might think—I built one as a child for show-and-tell, at shool; a wonderful device that enabled you to place trash in the wastepaper basket all the way across the room without getting up from your desk! Of course, I never actually got to demonstrate that one, but— _this_ one is so much better! So much larger, so much more _complex_ , and with a _much_ more worthy purpose. You see, _you_ —"

Taking a step forward, earnest eyes and excited hands—and then he must have seen it, her sharp amusement, the smug heat of her expression, because he pulled himself up, stopped short mid-step and mid-word.

_"You_ _!_ "

Stalking to her, he gave her a dark look. Didn't continue the monologue, but presented the rope. Roxanne laughed and put her hands behind her back. Long fingers made swift work of the knots, cool leather scarcely even brushing her skin.

"Well?" Roxanne asked, eyebrows raised, smile growing. "Aren't you going to tell me what it does?"

"No, no, no, that's quite enough out of _you_ _!"_

"Come on, Megamind," Roxanne said, "does it shoot lasers? Do I get run over by a giant ball rolling down the track? Spill; what else am I here for besides listening to you telling me your evil plot?"

_"You,_ Miss Ritchi—"

A murmur, warm breath at her ear, hands on her chair, leaning over behind her and pushing her _and_ her chair toward the edge of the platform with an effortlessness that leaves her breathless.

"Megamind—" heart leaping into her throat.

A low laugh behind her, and the chair moves inexorably forward and _trepidation_ becomes _terror_ and—

_"Megamind!"_

"—you're the part that makes it— _GO!"_

As her chair is shoved over the edge her voice breaks in a shriek harmonizing with supervillain laughter, ringing out in the empty air.

* * *

Life continued as..."normal", the little squares filling up with X's, one by one.

Halloween. Smoke and mirrors and projections in the skyrises to turn all of downtown into a holodeck haunted house.

Early November, snatched right out from under Wayne's nose on the way to a charity event.

Thanksgiving was a bust. Bag whipped off, cackling commenced, lights flicked on—and something had gone thunderously _CLUNK_ from the depths of the complicated machines and tubes around her. They'd done it as Black Friday, instead, with modifications to alter the theme and make it seem as if it were an entirely new Plan. Roxanne, politely, did not point this out.

December 17th. Depressing as usual. In her ( _expensive_ god damn it) blue silk dress with the sheer black chiffon sleeves and collar and the bare sharply plunging neckline—

(okay _OKAY_ so she wanted to cheer him up; so _what_. Roxanne wore it for his birthday every year and _he_ never noticed but— _she_ knew. It was—it was _tradition. Anyway_ —)

Trapped underwater, dry in a sinking glass cylinder serving as a shark cage, while the enormous red-eyed robosharks swirled violently, snapping at Wayne with such force she could feel the lake shuddering around her cage.

Christmas was _excellent_ , though.

During a gathering in City Hall—tinsel and impossibly tall, impeccably decorated trees, and gold gleaming everywhere. She didn't even notice at first, when the music changed, the song (Black Parade—of fucking course) blending so seamlessly in the beginning until the heavy drums and screaming kicked abruptly in and the bright silver balls on the trees exploded into the brainbots they'd been disguising, lightning flickering silver.

The battlesuit dropped in from the ceiling, shattering glass everywhere, supervillain laughter bursting through the air. Glass shards skittered across an invisible field mid-air, shunted sideways until the walls were gleaming and glinting, coated in glittery shrapnel; deadly decor.

The Hall was chaos.

Black smoke billowing from the jets of the suit, snow flurries drifting down from the broken ceiling. Roxanne wandered away from the center of it, navigating screaming civilians until Minion snatched her up, swinging from a garland twined with spikes and black tinsel, and dropped her into Megamind's waiting arms.

"Merry Christmas, Sir!" Minion shouted, swinging away.

And without looking away from her Megamind called out, "Oh! Thank you, Minion; just what I always wanted!"

The dome of the suit had _swooshed_ shut over them—and he'd reached for a lever, the suit kicked off the floor and blasted back up through the ceiling. Brainbots sparking lightning and lasers reflecting off of glass all trailing behind them in swirls of smoke and snow and screaming.

"Miss Ritchi!" No one can pretend surprise like Megamind. Mirth dances hot and bright in his eyes and his lower lip is caught between his teeth as he smiles at her. "Fancy meeting you here!" He throws back his head and laughs, pure wicked glee. His chest vibrates against her.

Something thrills up Roxanne's spine on feathery feet, something heated coils low in her belly. She manages to flash him a normal smile, speak with her usual dry humor.

"It must be a Christmas miracle."

* * *

The card becomes part of the familiar clutter of her purse, bright filigree design always catching her eye as she digs through for lipstick or sunglasses or credit card. (Or the handcuffs. Or the lockpicks. Life as a damsel-reporter can be...uniquely challenging, at times.) 

Curiosity about the prize snags her attention in dull work meetings, taxi cab rides, late at night staring sightlessly into the dark and not falling asleep.

A _frequent kidnapping card_. God. It's so—so very _Megamind_. Sweet and soft and unexpected. Weird, in the best possible way.

She hands it unthinking to a barista one day at the coffee shop.

"Uhhh..."

Roxanne looks up. "Oh, sorry!" Laughing with the barista, but quickly reaching out to take the card back.

The barista is studying it, though, card held out of Roxanne's reach. Roxanne manages not to lean over the counter to snatch it from them like a _crazy person_ , digs, instead, in her purse for the coffee card. Finds it, holds it out with a smile that's only slightly tense around the edges.

"That's...pretty wild." Barista shaking their head, handing the kidnapping card back.

Roxanne takes it just a little too fast, glances at it, involuntary and automatic, flipping it to see both sides are undamaged.

The barista watches her. "He really is just— _like that_ , huh?"

Card tucked safely away again, warm good humor fills Roxanne to the brim and she grins. "He really is."

* * *

Months tick by, each one marked in black ink on a tiny blue square.

Until, finally—

_Until_.

It catches her _entirely_ off guard, is what happens, and she is _never_ good when her heart is flying out from under her—

But—

_Fuck_ , isn't she _allowed_ to be caught off guard, like all the rest of the world? Can't life cut her some slack, just once, give her some fucking breathing room? Why does every mistake have to be so _extreme_ for her? Where is her allowance for the regular everyday kind of sloppy behavior everyone else in the world indulges in?

Normal people make mistakes like this all the time, and never seem to end up with their whole world crashing down around their ears.

(Of course, normal people aren't secretly in love with their alien supervillain kidnappers.)

(...Never mind that normal people don't _have_ alien supervillain kidnappers, _Roxanne_.)

The worst day of her life.

The day that she wakes up to Megamind flourishing the card before her newly-conscious eyes, the final square neatly stamped with its last little dark

**X**

And—

— _and—_

Megamind leans over her and Megamind's breath shivers across the sensitive skin of her neck and Megamind purrs in her ear and it isn't _excitement_ that rushes through Roxanne but the cold flood of terror, a frozen fist clenching around her insides, a wave of black fear engulfs all the world and leaves her drowning behind her eyes. No breath no sight no thought because—

_**He knows**_ —

And Megamind _says it_ , he actually _voices the words out loud into the air with his mouth_ and—

Fuckfuckfuck _fuck_ **FUCK**

* * *

She panics.

It is not one of her better moments.

* * *

She realizes it the second she is finally alone, in the safe stillness of her apartment, so quiet the silence rings like a bell.

Sunlight is deeply slanted through the shadows of her living room, and Metro Man is gone, and she's alone and she's living over and over and over again that moment, that strike of—of _knowing_ , of realization, of feeling vulnerable and _exposed_ , like her soul is nothing more than a swarm of bugs scrambling for darkness when someone unexpectedly flicks the light on. That's the feeling, the skittery blind panic feeling. Like she's not even a thinking creature, not at all.

Only...

Only that isn't right, is it?

_(the flash of pain, so clear on Megamind's face, the naked hurt in his eyes, the way he stumbles on his way around her chair—)_

—Only she's made a fucking _mistake_ , and—

Oh, god.

(shame denial _fear fear fear)_

Oh— _oh_ —

—it cuts her now so deeply she feels like each indrawn breath is full of blood and shards of bone and—

Roxanne turns, blindly fumbling for the handle of her balcony door, stumbles out into the blast of humid heat and open air and city noise and the stink, even this high up, of garbage and traffic fumes—she needs more flowers, she thinks, wildly, stumbling to the edge of her balcony and flattening her hands on the concrete wall, sun-warmed and rough under her palms. She needs a trellis, maybe, along one side—it could shade the sun and if she put a couple of big pots with honeysuckle or wisteria—or—or—

She draws in a deep breath but before she releases it in a shout on his name, Wayne is hovering there beside her, booted feet still clad in Metro Man's gold tasseled boots.

She lets out the breath in broken rush and covers her face in her hands.

"You have to get him out. You have to take me back."

(it isn't really _him_ she wants to talk to—she's not even sure if it's _Megamind_ she wants to talk to—the things she has to say should be spoken to the woman in the mirror but right now Roxanne is all sharp angles inside, like broken glass embedded all along the well of her soul; right now Roxanne is a hot, churning sea of anguish and anxiety and regret so strong, so bitter, it's like bile in the back of her mouth, like salt water stinging her sight; right now Roxanne is shaking hands lowering a bucket down into dark water, right now she is soft lashes holding back a drowning flood—and none of this she wants to say to him, to Megamind—to _anyone ,_ really _least_ of all her own reflection, so what she tells Wayne is—)

"I have to fix it."

Which is the least of all things but at least it is true.

And, blinking hard, feeling like she's looking up at him from the bottom of an ocean, from the center of a maelstrom instead of merely a few feet of height—

"You have to get him out so I can—"

And she realizes, suddenly, Wayne is _angry_ —he looks like she's slapped him with her words. "I can't _do that_ , are you _insane?_ Do you know what would happen if I—if the _hero_ —broke the villain _out of jail?_ Are you out of your _mind?"_ Wayne is shaking his head, lips pulled back over his teeth. "God, Roxanne, how could you even _ask me_ that?"

Staring at her like he thinks maybe today wasn't actually about a giant spiky robot, maybe he'd missed something and today held a secret mind-control beam because he's looking at her like she's not really there in front of him at all, like he's actually looking at the Roxanne who stands six inches to one side and—

And it is so familiar and so painful and so _infuriating_ that Roxanne sets her teeth against her tongue, knowing anything she says now will be all fire and steel. She turns her head to one side and stares at the city below through furious unseeing eyes.

( _Megamind_ never looks at her like she should be that woman six inches to the side—)

But.

After today.

She's going to count her (nonexistent) lucky stars if Megamind ever looks at her again.

"Sorry," she tells him.

And, "Never mind."

Hearing her own voice high, and steady, and calm, calm, calm—

(calm like the center of a hurricane, like the dead air before a furious storm)

"Never mind, Wayne." She lifts her eyes to his and even finds, somewhere miles distant, that she _can_ hold out one hand and pat his meaty shoulder and she _can_ say, steady smooth silken _calm—_

(like a lie, like a _lie_ )

Roxanne carves her mouth upward at the edges, points her face at him.

"Everything's fine. Sorry. You can go."

* * *

Everything is as far from fine as it can get while she's still breathing and on her feet but everything will _be_ fine, once she has a chance—

(please, oh god in heaven, _please_ let her get a chance—let this not be _it_ , let him not be put off by her stupid stupid _stupid_ mistake, let her have one chance _just one_ —)

What the _hell_ is she going to do, anyway, if he _doesn't_ kidnap her again? Put out a supervillain want-ad? _One experienced damsel seeking alien supergenuis bad guy for kidnapping. Blue skin and large head required; anyone not named Megamind need not apply_...

Oh, Roxanne, you are in _trouble_.

She wants the flash of his eyes when she says something clever, the sharp-edged curve of his smile when he is pleased, the unbridled wildness of his laugh, the ridiculous prancing, the way he switches instantly and without warning into that low dark dangerous _supervillain_ side, doing it to affect her; and god is Roxanne ever _affected_.

The regret of not telling him looms ahead of her with a finality like death.

She can't even imagine the rest of her life knowing that she'd let this slip by, she _can't_ , there's _nothing there_. The desiccation of her heart, sticking tight in her throat until she thinks she'll die choking on it.

She cannot go on without saying it. This is a blind crossroads beyond which the future does not stretch.

It isn't anything like bravery.

It's just the only way forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The kidnapping scene with Megamind's monologue about Rube Goldberg would not exist without Set's help. (Set's feelings about Rube Goldberg are very much in line with Megamind's.) Thank you, babyluv!
> 
> (Also, the way Megamind looks in that scene talking about Rube Goldberg is how you look talking about Rube Goldberg. Beautiful, isn't it? :D )
> 
> The line "It's me—I can't get myself to go away" is from Long Day by Matchbox Twenty and is a really fantastic depressed!Roxanne song.
> 
> And the coupon card—
> 
> Set gave me the coupon card in the picture two—three?—years ago when we first got together. I'd been separated from the ex for over a year but was still financially dependant. Then there was Mega Camp, I met Set in Real Life, went back to Nevada and got divorced, packed all my shit and all my animals in a week, and Set flew in to get me. We drove back to the Midwest together (with all the animals) and stopped in Vegas at Set's sister's house that first night.
> 
> There was a bunch of birthday stuff on the kitchen table, gifts and decorations made of blue tissue paper. It wasn't until after we'd gotten the animals settled, ordered pizza, and were sitting on the couch that I gestured to the table. "Is it someone's birthday?"
> 
> Set's brows hit their hairline and their jaw hit the floor. "IT'S YOURS!"
> 
> "I—but—mine was Wednesday!" It being now the implausibly distant date of Saturday.
> 
> Set face palmed with both hands. "I thought you didn't care! I thought you saw the presents and didn't care!"
> 
> "I—I—that's for me?"
> 
> "YES! Ghost, oh my god."
> 
> My family hadn't called or sent me a card or anything for the last...five years? Including the year I'd been back in their state on my birthday. They'd forgotten it several years a row when I was a kid. (Not to mention birthday-specific child abuse I won't go into. I'm not in contact with any of my family anymore and am MUCH better for it).
> 
> I cried and cried. Set held me. Then we opened presents and I cried some more.
> 
> One of the gifts was the kidnapping card in the picture.
> 
> (They ALSO made from scratch the most delicious fucking chocolate cupcakes I've ever had AND CARRIED THEM ON THE PLANE TO BRING ME ! D: ! *distress mayday mayday TOO MUCH LOVE AND KINDNESS WHAT DO?*
> 
> Marry them and spend the rest of our lives ambushing them with overwhelming love, that's what. Hi, babe!)


End file.
